


Love in All the Hollow Places

by Vitreous_Humor



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Hair-pulling, M/M, Roleplay, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitreous_Humor/pseuds/Vitreous_Humor
Summary: Look, demons haveissues, all right? It's been a long six thousand years, and some needs don't go away. They just get twisted up and turned around and tangled up tighter than someone's first knitting project. Luckily, Crowley has Aziraphale to do some untangling.





	Love in All the Hollow Places

It had taken him almost two weeks to explain it to Aziraphale. It would have taken less time, but every few sentences, sometimes every few words, Crowley had started to fidget and pace, throwing his limbs around like yo-yos until they had had to pause for the safety of the premises. Still, even if Crowley's nerve wanted to splinter and break, Aziraphale's never would, and word by word, sentence by sentence, Crowley saw that the angel was building a clear picture of something Crowley himself had never dared to look at too closely.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said. “I think I have the shape of it now.”

He spoke with all the primness of a church secretary closing up her books, and that was how Crowley knew that he was _fucked._

Well, no. That would have been far simpler. 

***

It was the next evening when Crowley came in from the cold to find Aziraphale seated in front of the fire, a book in his hands and an absorbed expression on his face. He glanced up from the end of the couch that usually didn't exist in his parlor and patted the spot next to him.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” he said mildly. “Come here to where it's warm.” 

Crowley recognized the couch as he came to sit next to his angel. A brief check for the scorch mark he had accidentally made back in 1859 along the cushion near the back confirmed it.

 _Damn, but he's thorough,_ Crowley thought. 

When they had done this back when Victoria was a girl, he had only been thinking about getting a bit of shelter from the storm. The 1850s were a bastard cold decade, and when his business took him to Soho, sometimes the only consolation was getting to peek in on Aziraphale in his shop, taking advantage of the tea and sandwiches that always seemed so much more nourishing when the angel provided them.

He reached for the tea now, and they sipped together quietly for a while. Crowley, who had been wondering if he would be too tense for this at all, found himself relaxing in centimeters. His nerves felt a little less tight. His spine regained some of its accustomed fluidity. Soon enough, even as Aziraphale was still as straight and proper as a regimental soldier, Crowley started to melt back into the sofa, legs kicked out and head tilted back.

It was good, it had always been good, and he was surprised to find that he was actually getting a little sleepy.

_Satan, but they were cold years. Never could seem to get properly warmed up from one end of 'em to the next.._

“You're going to get quite the crick in your neck if you keep on like that, my dear,” Aziraphale said, not looking up from his book.

“Shan't. I'm a snake. I'm all neck. It'll be fine.” 

Aziraphale tutted, putting his finger to hold his place as he stretched out his arm. 

“No, come here. The sofa is long enough for you to stretch out, and then you won't be so stiff when morning comes.”

Crowley didn't hesitate, just like he hadn't hesitated back then. Aziraphale was possessed of more strength than most people guessed, but his thighs were soft, perfectly comfortable. He doubted many people would turn down the opportunity to rest their head there for a quick lie-down. This time, however, instead of facing the fire, he lay down so his nose was just a few inches away from Aziraphale's belly. 

“Mm, you're right,” he muttered, stretching out his legs luxuriously. He doubted suddenly that the sofa had been long enough to accommodate his length, and at the same time, he remembered that he had been able to stretch out just like this all those years ago. Had Aziraphale been quietly miracling it longer all this time?

As he pondered that question, Aziraphale's hand came down to brush gently at his hair. The touch was light, not even grazing his skin.

“You are thinking too much,” Aziraphale said.

“S'pose I am,” Crowley grumbled, shifting to make himself more comfortable, but at the same time he was aware of a growing pressure deep in his core, a tautness that foretold nothing good. Angels had to make an effort for such things, but demons, in a kind of cosmic joke, sometimes seemed to be waiting for the worst possible time. Usually that worse possible time was someone else's, but Crowley had always been the unlucky one.

That low tight feeling got worse when Aziraphale rested his arm over Crowley's shoulder. It was a natural gesture, no harm to it as Aziraphale continued reading his book, but it gave Crowley a slightly trapped feeling, slightly claustrophobic even when it felt good and close.

 _I could call this off,_ Crowley thought, a little desperate now. _I could nuzzle his tum a bit, tug at his trousers with my teeth. I could make him see his way to making an effort. We could call out for Thai afterward._

“Crowley, you're thinking too much again.”

 _That_ was new, and it had just enough sternness to it to send his thoughts scattering like marbles on an utterly frictionless plain. Thoughts of Thai food went right out of his head, and that feeling was making itself more noticeable now, more insistent.

He shifted slightly, hoping it would ease, but it didn't and now he saw Aziraphale's eyes flicker down the length of his body.

“What in the world?” asked the angel, halfway between startled and concerned.

“It's nothing,” Crowley said, because hadn't he always told his frie- his coll- the people he worked with that angels were silly things? If he said nothing, an angel would of course believe him.

“It doesn't _look_ like nothing,” Aziraphale said, and this time his tone was harder. The weight of his arm draped over Crowley's shoulders grew heavier. Crowley just barely stopped himself from squirming, because hearing Aziraphale use _that_ tone on him was only making everything worse.

“Just let me up,” he said, starting to sit up, but Aziraphale had put down the book, and taken a firm grip on his hair. It was a little longer than it usually was for this evening, and Crowley couldn't resist groaning as Aziraphale's fingers sunk in and tightened.

“And what kind of noise is that?” Aziraphale said. “What on earth have you been thinking about lying there?”

“Stock market crashes and dead puppies,” Crowley snapped, “Angel, let me up.”

“No, I don't think so,” Aziraphale said, his voice losing its last degree of warmth. “And I have seen you thinking about those things, and they don't make your hips twist like _that_ , do they?”

“Once again, snake. This is just how I move-”

The end of the word was cut off by a gasp as Aziraphale's fingers tightened in his hair. Crowley tried to pull back, but now Aziraphale was putting some strength into holding him down, keeping Crowley's face against the pressed crispness of his trousers.

“What a filthy thing,” Aziraphale said. “To think I let you in.”

Crowley might have had more defenses against it if Aziraphale had been angry. Instead, he sounded as if he was _offended,_ as if a book he had gone all the way to the suburbs for turned out to be a fake or if a cleaning product had proved to be less magical than expected. The offense coupled with the look of distaste on Aziraphale's face made something inside him cringe, and oh, that was a sick kind of pleasure. 

“Really, Crowley, I had expected better of you. Looking back, I suppose we all did.”

This time Crowley did try to lunge up, but Aziraphale's grip on his hair was tight enough he'd lose the hair if he did. He wasn't ready to do that, not yet, but there was a nervy part of him that could perhaps see it from here.

“ Aziraphale... it doesn't mean anything.”

“No? No, I suppose it must not, to you. Is that just how they pass the time in hell? Rutting against anyone who holds still long enough? Disgusting.”

“Not _anyone,_ ” Crowley protested, because that was true, at least for him. At least most days. Most of the time. He wanted to explain to Aziraphale how it was in those early days, how touch was a comfort, even if it hurt, even if it left him feeling strange and used and out of his own skin after, and even that was alright too, because if he was out of his own body, he was out of hell, and...

“Oh yes, anyone,” Aziraphale said calmly. “That's the way you are up here too, or do you think I haven't noticed? You may call it tempting, and you may say that it's service to your masters, but I know different. I can see straight into the place your heart should be, Crowley, and I know you are just trying to fill it back up.”

Crowley got his hands underneath himself as he twisted to his belly, and he snarled as he tried to lever himself up. He might have been willing to lose the hair this time, he could always grow it back, but Aziraphale's free hand, swept back and landed a hard blow to his rear. It wasn't anything as cute as a spanking; it was so hard that it took his breath away, brought him to lie flat underneath the sudden rush of pain. It would bruise, and something about Aziraphale hitting him that hard cracked something inside him.

_Angels shouldn't... he can't..._

But of course angels could, and Aziraphale would. 

“That's why you're here, isn't it, Crowley? Latching on to me, you may call it tempting, but you gave that up long ago. You're just looking for something to fill that hole inside you, and if it was just carnal, perhaps I might understand. It's not, though, isn't it?”

Aziraphale paused. Crowley's heart, or the place where it should have been throbbed. It didn't feel as if a hollow place could ache but it did.

“You're here because you want me to love you.”

“ _Fuck_ you!” 

Crowley's cry was as good as an admission. Suddenly, he was glad his face was pressed down against Aziraphale's thigh. He wasn't sure if he could bear to be seen just then, and that was to say nothing of his body, traitorous thing. He pushed the cock he didn't have half an hour ago against the cushion beneath him, and it wouldn't have mattered if it was thorns or concrete instead of upholstery and batting. 

“I would understand,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice clipped and concise, “if you wanted to fuck me. That's something a proper demon would do, isn't it? Bend me over and violate me until I cried and begged for mercy, until I was willing to renounce everything I ever held dear to make the hurting stop.”

Crowley groaned, because maybe there had been a little bit of that too. Just in his mind, just in the barest moments that felt like that questioning place that had gotten him taking that billion light year dive in the first place. His angel was _beautiful,_ and there was no unfalling once you had fallen. 

Aziraphale shook him gently by the hair. When had he started crying? The fabric under his face was wet. His throat burned, his entire body felt too hot now. 

“Not _you._ Demon, and you can't even get that right. What a sad thing you are. Neither angel nor demon, just a pathetic thing that wants me to love him.”

“You're _supposed_ to,” Crowley protested, and once that was out, there was no calling it back. “You're an angel, you're meant to love everyone!”

“And you thought that perhaps, just perhaps, a being that had been made to love first and foremost would tolerate you? You are unacceptable, Crowely, utterly unacceptable. No one could ever love a ruined thing like you. Not angels, who were made to love the world, not demons, who were made to cherish the unloveable. No place for you. There is no one in the whole of creation that could look at you and see something worth keeping, let alone loving.”

Crowley sobbed. The tears were coming in earnest now, and Aziraphale didn't need to hold him against his thigh any longer because Crowley's pressed his face so tightly against it that he saw stars. He was sobbing and his hips sliding against the couch. Aziraphale's words felt like a scourge, raking across tender flesh that he didn't even know he still had, except of course he had or he would never have asked for this horrible thing. 

“Look at you,” Aziraphale said, some viciousness coming out. It felt good that he could bring this kind of savagery out in an angel who loved his books, who loved his quiet pleasures and in his own slightly confused and abstracted way, loved every single soul on the planet. If he had to be this kind of fuck-up, at least he was a spectacular one.

“ _Look_ at you, thrusting against the couch like an animal that can't control itself. Even dogs know when to run away when they are struck, Crawley.”

Another hard blow landed on his rear, breathtaking pain and the name he thought he had shed hitting him at once. It _hurt,_ angels weren't supposed to hurt people, especially not this one. Crowley sobbed, burying his face in Aziraphale's thigh, squirming against the couch as if he could shake off the pain of it. 

“Beg me,” Aziraphale hissed in his ear. “ _Beg_ me for what you want. I won't give it to you, but perhaps there is a chance I'll consider it if you ask nicely enough.”

“Love me,” panted Crowley. “Love me, please, just _say_ that you do. I don't care if it's a lie, just say it, please. You're an angel, aren't you? Please, please, just say that you love me, say that you don't hate me, that you forgive me please.”

Aziraphale's hand landed on the small of his back, hooked into claws. He tore the back of Crowley's shirt like tissue, the skin of his back like something only a bit more sturdy. Crowley caught a scream between his teeth because he had not been told he could scream, and he was so hard, he thought he might explode, surely it couldn't get any worse (or better).

“More,” Aziraphlale said, sounding almost bored, and Crowley's chest tightened like a fist as his hips worked against the couch underneath him. 

“Please, please, angel, please. I'll do whatever you want. I love you, please, just... just pretend to love me, just for an hour, that's all I want, and after that, I'll go, you won't see me for a hundred years, you can pretend for an _hour_ , can't you?”

“An hour?” asked Aziraphale, unimpressed.

“Half an hour? Fifteen minutes, please, just for a little while, just so I can close my eyes and pretend it's real, just for long enough to stop, and stop, and stop, please. Please don't do this to me...”

There was a half-moment where Aziraphale paused, but it wasn't the word they had agreed upon. Instead of stopping, he leaned down until his lips were close to Crowley's ear.

“Disgusting. No one could love you or forgive you. Ever. Not in all of creation. I don't love you. I never will, and it's pathetic how you-”

Something in that did it. Crowley's entire body went rigid, and he pressed himself helplessly against the couch one last time, feeling as disgusting and filthy as Aziraphale had said he was, as Aziraphale must surely _know_ he was. The climax consumed him like fire eating up a dry scrap of paper, but he was still crying, clinging to Aziraphale, his arms around the angel's waist as he continued to beg.

This time, however, warm strong arms came around him, hauling him around until he was was cradled against Aziraphale's side, huddled there like a chick against his mother's warm body, sheltered by her wing. He hiccuped slightly, aware of what a ridiculous mess he was. He started to sit up straight, reaching for whatever tattered bits of dignity he had left after a scene like _that,_ but those strong arms kept him still again.

“Not yet,” Aziraphale crooned. “Just stay still. That was very difficult, and I am very proud of you.”

That made the tears come again, but these were different. In an absent sort of way, he knew that If a human put them under a microscope that she would find the tears different at a molecular level from the ones he had shed before.

He cried, longer than he might have preferred, less long than he might have feared, and the entire time, Aziraphale whispered the softest, sweetest things in his ear. Crowley was careful not to let himself listen too closely. Aziraphale had read every word that humans had ever written, and sometimes, it felt as if he had saved the most precious of them for Crowley. As raw as he felt, he couldn't take the gentleness at all. If the hurt had continued, he might have built up some kind of callous, but Aziraphale's incandescent kindness could obliterate him.

Finally, he sat up straight and took the glass of ice water from Aziraphale. He drank some and rolled the cold glass over his face, feeling marginally more sane.

Aziraphale tried to smile at him.

“Was that...?”

“Exactly what I wanted, angel. Thank you.”

Aziraphale made a face.

“Don't thank me for that, please.”

“You did it to please me...” Crowley looked at him a little closer. “Or... was there something in it for you, as well?”

Aziraphale blushed, looking down and Crowley touched his chin, making him look up again. He examined his angel's face, looking at the features he knew so well. 

“There's always 'something in it for me' when it's you, and that's you,” Aziraphale said, “but... perhaps...”

Crowley grinned. His body still throbbed from where Aziraphale had struck him and scratched him, and he would need to get himself a new shirt, but that was far less important than what he found in Aziraphale's face.

“Tell me,” he said.

“When... when you begged me to love you,” he muttered. “Oh Crowley, you know that I always would. You must know that I do, no matter what...”

“Of course,” Crowley said, intrigued. “But maybe I don't know that? Does that get your motor going, angel?”

“I don't _have_ a motor. And... I don't know. Yes? Perhaps something in me likes the power, and... I like the idea of being able to give you something that you want that much.”

“Like if... if we'd never met, and I just came to you...”

“Yes, or... well. Nothing we are going to discuss tonight. That has been quite enough for both of us, I think.”

Crowley started to protest, and then made a face when he realized how messy he was, how sore, and tired, and if he were being perfectly honest, as he tried not to be too often, still a little wobbly for much beyond some soft touching and closeness.

“You're likely right, angel. Another time, then. I want to hear about the rest of that.”

“Stubborn old thing,” Aziraphale said affectionately.

 _Just enough of a bastard to be worth liking,_ he had said once upon a time, and as Aziraphale helped him to his feet, Crowley amended it to _just enough of a bastard to be worth loving._


End file.
